


I Don't Like Red

by silver0wings



Series: Merc' the Jerk [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Child Abuse, Death, Gen, Guns, Implied Future Sexual Abuse, Murder, Violence, marcus is not a good dad, merc is seven so uh this is fucked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 12:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18872875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver0wings/pseuds/silver0wings
Summary: Marcus decides that Mercury is old enough to help him with a job.





	I Don't Like Red

**Author's Note:**

> A note on the depictions of abuse, sexual abuse, rape, murder, transphobia, violence, self-medicating illegal drug use and addiction, etc - this series and myself do not condone any of these things. Despite them being described in sometimes graphic detail, they are not okay nor should they be normalized or romanticized. I do my best to make it clear that the things Mercury goes through are not any in way, shape, or form, acceptable. I do my best to show that the things Mercury continues to do post-Marcus are also, not acceptable. Mercury will at times try to justify the things that happen, self deprecate, and excuse Marcus' and his own behavior. These are common coping tactics in abuse survivors. They are not okay. His behavior is not okay.
> 
> This said I do condone the graphic murder of rapists and pedophiles, especially incestuous ones. Die.

“Blue’s my favorite color.”

 

I hold up a picture up to dad, rather proud of it. It isn’t anything fancy really, just a skyscape that used every blue crayon in the box with a handful of puffy clouds. I didn’t feel like adding the sun, since it hurts to look at, and really isn’t that important. What is important, though, is that dad knows that blue is The Best Color. 

He barely looks up from the paper in front of him. Dad doesn’t use crayon, he uses a pen, and writes lots of numbers on the letters that come in the mail. He always seems upset when he does. He seems upset a lot lately. 

When dad’s upset, he doesn’t go shopping for food, and doesn’t get his hair cut very often. It’s long enough to get in his eyes now, so he pushes the gray strands back to look at my picture. “Like red better,” is all he says, reaching for a glass of special juice I’m not allowed to have. I snuck some once, it tastes bad anyway.

 

“Red’s boring, nothing's red,” I sigh and pull myself onto a chair, looking at what he’s writing on. I can’t read, but I’ve been read to, I know what some shapes mean. I know the carefully curled fonts are from what dad calls Clients, and sometimes Client letters have lien in them. I know the letters with big red words are Bills, and that those aren’t good. It’s easy to figure out that this time it’s a lot of Bills, and no Clients, even if I can’t read. 

Reading’s for chumps anyhow. 

Dad hums, and starts cleaning up his mess. “I could show you some red stuff, you’re almost old enough now, aren’t you? You’re…” 

“Seven.” I’m still looking at my picture. He didn’t even say if he liked it. 

Another hum, and he reaches out to ruffle my hair. “See, you’re all grown up. Such a big kid now,” he stops ruffling, and slides his hand to my cheek, rubbing his thumb over it. I smile at him. I like when dad’s calm and not yelling. But he likes yelling, I think. Why else would he yell so much?

His thumb brushes my lip, and then pulls away fast when he stands, putting the Bills away. He pours more into his drink, and I reach for his glass, but he takes it before I can. “Not old enough for that, give it another year. But… Think you’re old enough to help your old man out with a job.” 

I nod, beaming up at him. Dad works all the time, goes out on jobs all the time and is always really tired and just wants to shower, drink, and yell when he gets home. He wants to shower so much when he gets home, he doesn’t even talk to me beforehand.

“I wanna!” I straighten up my hair where it’s gotten in my eyes. It’s thick and black, much darker than Dad’s silver-white. He says his used to be black like mine, but turned grey when he grew up. “I wanna help, I wanna be like you.” 

Dad’s smiles, and seems happy. I want him happy. I’ll do anything to keep him happy. “Alright kiddo, let’s get you ready. I’ll show you the ropes, maybe even let you do the deed if you’re good.” He heads up to his room, and I follow right behind. He goes for the closet, which I’m not allowed in, so I wait on his bed. 

When dad looks back at me, his face twists up. “Get off there. That’s for adults. Unless…” I tilt my head when he trails off. Unless what? 

“I’m a big kid, I can handle adult stuff!” 

He pulls a bag from the closet, a big long one with something inside. He ruffles my hair, pats my cheek, and brushes a finger over my lips again, his face still looking funny. “Maybe next time. Let’s go show you some red.” 

I don’t really pay attention to where we’re going when we get in the car. I never do, really. We drive a lot, because dad Clients make us move to different cities so he can work for them, so I have lots of practicing being patient in the car. I watch the sky, and the lake we pass, and the shiny blue car that speeds by. I really like blue. But green is nice too; there’s the grass and trees, the funny patch of mold in dad’s car that’s spongy and that tastes really bad. I still don’t see any red, besides the sun? Sort of? It’s orange and red and yellow and just hurts. 

Dad drives us into a city, and I like watching the blue on billboards, the grey-black of concrete streets. I start counting how many things have colors I really like, and I get up to 34 before we stop. Dad makes a gesture to be quiet, so I zip my lips and follow. I stand by the car as he takes two things out of the bag. One I don’t really see, he just puts it inside his coat. The other I know his a Rifle that he uses on jobs. He says I’m not to play with it, because it’s dangerous, but he’s never shown me what it does. 

I keep quiet, and keep looking for colors I like as we take a fire escape up the side of a building. This is red! The stairs and railing are red! This must be what dad was talking about. They’re also rusty and creek under each step. Maybe dad uses the rifle to fix red things? Maybe he’ll fix things once we get to the top?

We don’t fix anything at the top. He sits me down behind an AC unit box, gestures to be quiet again, finger to his lips. I zip mine again. Dad sits with me, his rifle perched on the top of the AC unit. And we sit there. 

And we sit there. 

And sit there. 

It’s hours and hours that we sit there. 

Dad stops being quiet at one point to have a smoke break. The clouds he makes make my chest feel funny, my throat itchy. I wish he didn’t take smoke breaks. He looks over the edge of the building, and then turns too fast, crushing the cigarette under one foot and saying bad words. He grabs his rifle, puts it on his shoulder, and goes back to the edge of the building. 

He pulls the trigger. 

I didn’t know rifles made such loud and painful sounds. 

My ears keep ringing as I hold them and walk over towards dad. I let go of one to grab the edge of his jacket so I don’t fall off the edge. Down below is a guy, squirming on the ground. His hair is kind of bluish-green, and there’s red on his pants, near his right knee. 

“C’mon, you’re finishing this.” Dad slings the rifle over his shoulder, and then picks me up. He takes off down the fire escape, and I close my eyes tight. He runs so fast sometimes, the wind moving past hurts. Sometimes if I think about it enough, I can make the wind stop, but then my stomach gets upset. I don’t want my stomach to be upset, so I don’t try to stop the wind. 

He puts me down next to the squirming guy, and I realize the red is blood. He seems scared. Really scared. Did the rifle hurt him?” 

Dad reaches into his jacket, and grabs for my hand. The thing he puts into my hand is black, metal, heavy. A pistol? I think that’s what it is. “Here kiddo. Right up to his head. Yeah, that’s it. This’ll help him. Now just pull the-” Dad moves my hands to hold the pistol right, to put it where it goes. 

“N-no! Please please, whatever I did, if this is about the debts I’ll pay it back-” 

“Shut up.” Dad kicks him in the ribs. I’m not sure how that will help him. Maybe dad just wants him to hold still. Sometimes he kicks me when he wants me to hold still. That makes sense. The pistol must only help him if he’s still. 

Dad adjusts my hands and the pistol again, putting it back to his temple. I smile at the blue-green man. “I’ll help you!” And I pull the trigger. 

It happens really fast. 

It’s loud, and kind of feels like falling down the stairs with how hard it pushes me back. My eyes shut when I pull it, and I hope that doesn’t mess it up. 

Before I can open them, before my ears stop ringing, before I can think about looking, something wet and warm splatters all over me. 

I drop the pistol to wipe it off my face and to rub my ears. I can hear dad talking, but I’m not paying enough attention to hear him through the ringing. 

There’s so much red. 

It’s all over my hands, my shirt and face. It’s all over the blue-green man, leaking out of the hole inside his head. He looks less scared, he’s still now. Did I help him? 

Dad pats my back, and we start walking towards the car. He doesn’t say anything, and we don’t help the man anymore. I guess he’ll get better on his own. I guess this is what dad’s job is, helping people by making them red. 

On the drive home, I keep trying to get the red off my hands. I keep wondering when that man will wake up, and if he’ll send a thank you letter to us. I keep thinking about all the red, and I realize, 

I don’t like red.


End file.
